


The Pen Is Mightier

by DaughteroftheCosmos



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, canon typical bertie stupidity, canon typical wilde smugness, let me know if i should tag anything else!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23368618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughteroftheCosmos/pseuds/DaughteroftheCosmos
Summary: "Wilde takes a moment to remove his own underclothes, finally too impatient to fold them and merely tossing them in the vague direction of his possessions. Struggling to keep his eye roll internal, he leans in, crawling across Bertie’s body to trace gentle fingers up the length of his prick.“I far prefer a quill to a sword, Sir Bertrand,” he says, tightening his grip slightly to make Bertie hiss before releasing it entirely. “I am a writer, after all.”"
Relationships: Sir Bertrand "Bertie" McGuffingham/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 23
Kudos: 55





	The Pen Is Mightier

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to the wilde server for enabling what was intended to be a cracky jokes filled bertie/wilde imagining but which ended up a lot pornier than initially planned. i am not complaining and i hope neither are y'all!
> 
> comments and kudos always loved and appreciated <3
> 
> let me know if you think i missed a tag! i am bad at tagging

“So you’re a writer, mmm?” Bertie asks, low and sensual. Even without the armor, he still boasts an admittedly imposing build; Wilde isn’t accustomed to looking up into the eyes of his partners, and it’s a surprisingly refreshing change. He might actually have a bit of fun with this, despite himself. 

In response to the question, Wilde runs his hands up and down the broad strength of Bertie’s arms, feels the muscle beneath, and smiles.

“Writer, journalist, poet.” Wilde rattles off, tracing his fingers up to lace them around Bertie’s neck with each word. “I dabble.”

“Mmm, yes, well, I, ah, rather imagine you’ll have  _ plenty _ to write about after tonight.”

Bertie says it with a salacious smirk, but Wilde has to suppress a snort at the irony of it all.  _ Yes, well, that’s the plan at least. _

“A bold claim, Sir,” Wilde responds. “Are you entirely certain you’re prepared to put your money where your mouth is?” Wilde’s arms have now fully wrapped themselves around Bertie’s neck, leaving their faces mere inches apart. Bertie’s aforementioned mouth, lips plush and inviting, opens as if to respond, which is of course when Wilde cuts off any attempt with a firm, filthy kiss.

Sir Bertrand is certainly a man about which much can be said, but  _ damn _ if he isn’t an excellent kisser. Wilde almost finds himself angry with the skilled tongue that meets him, but he’s too busy kissing back to fully parse how he feels about the situation. One of Bertie’s hands slides down Wilde’s side, slow enough for Wilde to stop its process; only when he doesn’t does it fully shift to cup Wilde’s ass in a satisfying handful. Wilde allows himself to moan at the sensation, as Bertie’s hands  _ are _ rather big. A deep groan growls from Bertie’s chest, and he breaks the kiss to catch his breath. 

“Shall we move the party elsewhere, mmm? Perhaps a large, comfortable, and extremely posh bed?” 

Wilde steps back and begins undoing the buttons of his shirt, having already laid his suit jacket neatly across a chair near the entrance of the room. Bertie keeps his hands on Wilde, and looks into his eyes with a question as he brings them to the clasp of Wilde’s trousers. At Wilde’s nod, he undoes them, stepping back for a moment to allow Wilde to step out of them, shirt still half unbuttoned and exposing the sharp lines of his collarbones. Bertie watches as Wilde folds his trousers neatly and finishes removing his shirt, placing both items on the chair with his jacket. When he turns back around, Bertie is in a similar state of undress, though he’s simply tossed his clothes to a corner of the room. 

Wilde traces the hard lines of Bertie’s body with a licentious gaze, and begins to approach, making Bertie walk backwards until his legs touch the bed. Wilde lifts his arms to telegraph his motion, and when no protest comes he lightly shoves at Bertie, who allows himself to fall backwards onto the bed with a huff.

Wilde finds himself hungrier for this than he anticipated; work has put him on a bit of a dry spell in recent times, save a memorable encounter in Cairo, and so he tugs at Bertie’s undergarments with a bit more force than he may have otherwise. Bertie allows it, hips shifting off the bed enough for Wilde to slide them down and toss them towards the corner with the rest of Bertie’s clothes.

“Quite a sword, mmm?” Bertie says, smug eyes watching as Wilde appraises him fully. He rolls his hips up a bit, prick already half hard and quite… notable, to be certain. 

Wilde takes a moment to remove his own underclothes, finally too impatient to fold them and merely tossing them in the vague direction of his possessions. Struggling to keep his eye roll internal, he leans in, crawling across Bertie’s body to trace gentle fingers up the length of his prick.

“I far prefer a quill to a sword, Sir Bertrand,” he says, tightening his grip slightly to make Bertie hiss before releasing it entirely. “I  _ am _ a writer, after all.”

It  _ is _ a rather impressive member, though, Wilde must admit, and the sight of it does nothing to discourage him. First, though, he leans in for another filthy kiss, tangling his hands in Bertie’s hair. Bertie kisses back with all that he’s worth, before releasing Wilde’s mouth to bite sharply along his neck with a groan. Wilde bends to allow it for a few moments, but soon shakes him off to trace his own path down Bertie’s collarbones with a hungry tongue. Nipping and biting his way down Bertie’s chest, he slowly and methodically makes his way down the length of his body.

Bertie begins to reach a hand down to tangle in Wilde’s hair, but Wilde grabs him by the wrist before he can. Looking wordlessly into Bertie’s eyes, he places the arm by Bertie’s side before leaning in to suck a mark into his thigh, so close and yet so far from where Bertie clearly wants it. 

“ _ And now I cry out, ‘To the Duke I will go’ _ ,” Wilde murmurs, eyeing the hard line of Bertie’s prick before him. Suddenly, the warm body beneath him tenses, and Bertie draws himself up fully to look at Wilde with frustration.

“I mean, I thought we had something  _ pretty nice _ going on,” Bertie says, now beginning to pout. “I don’t know who this  _ Duke _ of yours is, but I can assure  _ you _ Sir he is almost  _ certainly _ not my equal, mmm?”

Wilde blinks once, twice. “Ah, no, it’s- it’s a poem,  _ Sir  _ Bertrand.”

The title makes the man perk back up a bit, although he does manage to mutter “not much of a time for poetry, really,” as he shifts back down, leaving Wilde face to face (so to speak) with Bertie’s prick once again. It’s not a bad sight by any means, and Wilde makes sure to wear his filthiest smirk as he leans in to blow cool air across the flushed head. A faint “ah” catches in Bertie’s throat at the sensation. 

“Ah, Mr. Wilde, if you please- mmm!”

“What was that, Sir Bertrand? I’m afraid I didn’t catch that.”

“Ah, well, I mean to say-” Bertie starts, but cuts himself off with a cry as Wilde oh so gently tongues at the head. “ _ Please, _ please, oh please, Wilde, please,” he begs, and Wilde spares a moment to chuckle to himself before closing his eyes and taking as much as he can of Bertie’s cock into his throat.

“As much as he can” is very usually  _ all _ of it, and when Wilde finds himself at what he would usually consider his limit with still a bit to go, he squints at the flesh before him in annoyance. Bertie is loudly moaning and crying out in the background, but Wilde is of course much more concerned with the issue at hand. He breathes in slowly through his nose, attempting to relax himself as much as possible. The hand that previously tried to tangle itself into Wilde’s hair makes another attempt, which Wilde this time graciously allows. It doesn’t pull or tug, merely holds Wilde in place as he edges his way down the last few inches until his throat is well and truly stuffed. He rests there for a few moments once he’s accomplished his goal, content at his own success. A light tug at his hair causes him to languidly open his eyes, and he looks up at Bertie with heat in his gaze.

Bertie’s face is red with sweat, and he groans at whatever he must see in Wilde’s eyes. Wilde narrows them, suddenly intent again on providing Bertie enough pleasure to overwhelm him, and swallows around his cock. 

The slick slide of spit and precum fills his mouth as he thoughtlessly works Bertie’s prick, humming with the familiarity of the action. He  _ likes  _ having a cock in his mouth, so sue him. It’s relaxing, it’s easy, he doesn’t particularly have to worry about much- and it frankly discourages conversation, which given his partner of the night may be a blessing. After a while of it, though, Wilde finds himself bored with the proceedings, and decides to continue on to the main event.

He slides himself off Bertie’s cock slow and deliberate, and presses a loving kiss to the head, before chuckling. He then shuffles down off the bed, before standing and walking over to the chair where he left his jacket. 

“Mmm, Wilde? Ah, where exactly are you going?” Bertie asks, voice rough and breathless.

It takes him but a moment to find the vial of oil he keeps stashed in his jacket pocket; for emergencies, of course, and opportunities. Shaking it slightly side to side to show Bertie, he returns to the bed and sinks down into the plush mattress, popping open the cap. 

Bertie reaches for the vial, intent on stretching Wilde open himself, but Wilde places a warm palm on Berties chest, shushing him gently to still his motions. He dribbles a bit of oil on his hands from the vial, coats his fingers with it and draws his hand back behind himself to circle his own entrance. “You can stay right there, Bertie, can’t you? Hold back for me?”

Bertie shudders and stills, and it’s  _ laughably _ easy to control him. Wilde rides the power high as he finally presses one of his own fingers insides himself, shuddering at both sensations. “Good boy,” he whispers, and he thinks he hears Bertie actually  _ whimper _ . 

He spends a few minutes like this preparing himself, keeping one hand on Bertie’s chest both to hold him back and to brace himself while the other stretches and slicks his hole just how he likes. Bertie twitches with the effort not to reach out, and licks his lips more than a few times at the sight Wilde makes. Only the sounds of Wilde’s cut off moans and gasps fill the air, and he can feel the tension in the room steadily climbing.

Eventually, though, he feels ready enough (and takes enough pity on Bertie) that he removes his hand and starts to shift forward. Noticing Wilde’s movement, Bertie starts to move himself as well, but Wilde quickly puts a stop to that with a quick smack from the hand previously braced against his chest.

“I think I’m going to ride you now, Bertie. I do hope you don’t mind, of course, but something tells me you’ll be amenable.” As he speaks, he slides his oiled hand up his own cock, releasing a bit of the tension he’d built up during his preparations.

Bertie gapes a bit like a fish, but Wilde doesn’t give him the chance to respond. Crawling forward onto Bertie’s sprawled out form, Wilde takes a moment to slick his hands, pouring more than enough oil between his fingers and sliding it up and down Bertie’s prick. Bertie moans and shudders, but says nothing as Wilde takes his cock in hand and gently eases it into himself.

It takes a few moments to work it in fully, and he allows himself pauses to breathe and clench around the pleasant intrusion. At each of these intervals Bertie growls with effort, but manages to restrain himself from moving. Finally, Wilde can fully seat himself on Bertie’s prick, face aglow with pleasure. He reaches a hand forward and fucks into his own fist a few times, before sighing out a gentle moan. 

“C- change your mind about a sword, then?” Bertie asks, straining to find the upper hand.

“Haven’t you heard, Bertie,” Wilde says, voice finally strained with effort. “The pen is  _ far  _ mightier than the sword.”

“Well, that’s a bit ridiculous. Why, I could- I could cut a pen in half with my sword any day. Probably two, really- both at the same time, even! Whoever said that must either have some really weird pens or some rather rubbish swords, mmm?”

The smug smirk on Wilde’s face freezes in place, and he very carefully does not respond. He instead makes the tactical decision to roll his hips down  _ just _ so, making Bertie moan and,,,  _ finally stop talking.  _ He does it again, chasing his own pleasure with Bertie’s serving as a fortunate enough side effect. He feels properly full, stuffed like not many men can claim to achieve, and it’s a feeling Wilde isn’t too proud to admit he’s missed. His thighs start to shake with exertion as he brings himself down over and over, head thrown back and hair framing his face with soft, silky curls. His hands reach down to grip at Bertie’s thighs, hard enough to bruise, but the cries and moans leaving Bertie’s mouth don’t seem to offer much complaint.

Wilde can tell when Bertie is close, and begins to slow his motions to tease Bertie to his edge. Whines and pleas fall from his throat, “please please please,” and “Oscar!” serving as notable enough examples. Wilde stills himself fully to wring a cry from Bertie’s throat, and as Bertie pants from the strain he suddenly spurs into motion, fucking his hips down and making Bertie come with a shout.

Wilde keeps rolling his hips as Bertie orgasms inside him, milking his hardness for all it can give until Bertie begs him wordlessly to stop, oversensitive. Wilde allows him a few moments to breathe, pausing his motions and resting atop Bertie’s thighs, spine tense with his own restraint, now.

In a flash, Bertie moves with far more speed than Wilde had thought him capable, pulling the man off of his prick and spreading him out on the bed. In moments his cock is engulfed in the wet warmth of Bertie’s mouth, and Wilde moans at the unexpected pleasure. Bertie might be an utterly pompous idiot who wouldn’t know his arse from his face, but Wilde has to give it to him: he’s a  _ good _ fuck.

____________________________________________________________________________

Afterwards, as Wilde quietly takes a picture of Bertie, undressed and wearing a soft feather boa he’d brought to wear in comfort, Wilde almost feels bad for what he’s about to do.

Almost, but not quite. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to crow for the poem which wilde quotes, "Signior Dildo" by Wilmot, which is as wonderful as it sounds.


End file.
